


One braver thing

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Canon Setting, Fever Dream, Inception Bingo, M/M, POV Arthur, Pining, Reference to Drugs, Undercover, arthur is a bamf, reference to violence, rescue from danger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 14:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11511705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Arthur loses track of Eames. And then he goes to find him.





	One braver thing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a four-trope story: undercover, rescue from danger, pining and fever dream.  
> I'm going for an extra blackout bingo by writing four stories that each contain the four tropes from one row on my bingo card.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to mycitruspocket for insightful reading.

_Fuck, Eames, what have you done?_

When Arthur loses track of Eames, he tries not to worry. Too much. At first. 

He’s just keeping tabs, as he does, on colleagues and their jobs. People he’s worked with, tracking who they’re working with, where they are, who they work for. Keeping the complex web of the dreamshare community organised in his own mind. Who knows who, who has what skills, who’s available when. It’s his skill. He may not have imagination or wild flights of creativity, but he knows where everyone is and what they are good at. He can pull a team together for a job and set up what they need to get it done. It may not be that glamorous, but it’s necessary. And Arthur is the best at it.

But Arthur has lost track of Eames. 

Eames doesn't have a job, but he’s not in any of his favoured tropical bolt holes, lounging in seedy bars, losing his last payout in some casino, winning it back through sheer charisma. Arthur tries not to think too hard about the fact that he knows so much about Eames’ downtime habits.

In response to Arthur’s discreet inquiries, no one else has heard anything since the end of his last job. There has been no activity on any of his bank accounts, no emails to or from any of his aliases. Nothing. But Eames is a cash-and-handshake kind of guy, so that is in itself not all that unusual, however difficult it makes Arthur’s task of keeping track.

Finally, he catches the vaguest hint of a rumour at third hand. Someone heard that Eames had been hired for a job in — well, they weren’t quite sure where, somewhere in Eastern Europe, or was it Central Asia? doing — again, they weren’t quite sure what, maybe it had to do with drugs?

Arthur can hardly believe what he’s hearing. Drugs? Central Asia? On his own? _What the fuck have you done, Eames?_

Of course, he’s not Eames’ keeper. They’re just colleagues. Occasional colleagues at that. What does it matter to him if Eames has gone off to do something possibly _really fucking stupid!_

He tries to focus on his own downtime plans: learning to cook authentic Thai food, rereading _The Magus_ (maybe it’ll make sense this time), improving his shooting, getting a new suit made. But it’s hopeless. The worry over Eames’ mysterious disappearance tugs at him and he ends up spending hours online and on the phone trying to figure out where he might be.

Eventually, he catches wind of a pharma company in Astana, Kazakhstan, that has developed a new treatment for something or other, and the pieces slot into place. Central Asia. Drugs. Why Eames would go alone isn't clear, but he’s always been enigmatic, a bit on the fringes, coming and then going. Maddening, really.

He makes airline reservations. It’s no easy matter getting there, and when he googles Astana, he can see why. It’s in the middle of literally nowhere and looks as if it could have been designed for a _Star Wars_ film.

He looks down as the plane banks to land and there is nothing, nothing, nothing, and then a city of impossibly shiny, ridiculously shaped buildings flanking wide and mostly empty boulevards. 

Where in this otherworldly metropolis is he going to find Eames, and what exactly will he be up to? And more importantly, how annoyed will he be that Arthur has come running after him? He can picture it, Eames leaning against a bar in one of these gaudy hotels, looking round and seeing Arthur. And his face shutting down. Arthur almost stays in the airport and books a ticket straight back out. But he can’t silence the nagging voice that keeps saying something about this whole thing just feels wrong. Wrong in a way that’s impossible to define. He’d hesitate to even describe it to anyone else. Has not done so, in fact. No one knows he’s here. _Which is pretty fucking stupid, Arthur._

He gets a taxi into the city, gazing out of the window at the display of oil money and tastelessness on every side. He’s booked a hotel near the centre, a discreet building by local standards. The sun is setting as he arrives. He orders room service and studies a city map while waiting. The pharma company has offices on one of the main boulevards. He looks out at the view while he eats, but can’t get a sense of where that is, now the sun is gone. 

Later, he lies in bed and tries to think of his next move. He’s pretty sure Eames must have come to do some preliminary research. He’s a versatile loner, but you can’t actually do a dream extraction solo. He’s seen Eames do surveillance, insinuate himself into an organisation, blend into the background, and before you know he has all kinds of information and insights that you just can’t get from research, however brilliant you are at it. It used to annoy Arthur, that Eames can gain this advantage through acting and charm, but he’s come to value it, without ever telling Eames that, of course. 

In the absence of an actual plan, he’s going to go and hang around near the company’s office building. Maybe he’ll see Eames arrive for “work” looking like a corporate drone in one of the dark suits he keeps for such eventualities. Then he’ll have to decide whether to announce himself and weather Eames’ displeasure, or simply leave, having reassured himself through this ridiculous expedition that Eames is in fact able to look after himself. Then he can go home, back to his ginger and chillies and his delicious windowpane check suiting and his firing range practice, and try to forget his stupidity and hope to god Eames never finds out. It’s not a plan and it provides scant comfort as he falls asleep.

The insistent beeping of his phone alarm pulls him from sleep before dawn and he showers and dresses in his own dark suit and is on the street as the sun begins to strike the gleaming white and actual bronze cladding of the buildings, dazzling him as he walks to the pharma company’s headquarters. There’s no cafe nearby, but there is a bench giving a good view of the entrance to the tower and he sits down to wait. The breeze is chilly, sweeping down the mostly empty street. With no newspaper to hide behind, he reads on his phone with half an eye, keeping most of his attention on the door. Hours pass and still no Eames, although plenty of people, locals and foreigners, have entered. He crosses the street and pushes the door open. The lobby is vast and marble-lined. The guard at the security desk looks up suspiciously. Arthur can't help thinking how Eames would handle this, with a mixture of charm and bullshit. He lacks the first and he’s not very good at the other and he doesn't even know if the guy understands English; there’s no alternative to a direct approach. 

“Excuse me—”

“Sir, your friend. I have not seen him since three days, sir.”

The man is speaking quietly, rapidly, glancing nervously over his shoulder towards the elevators. Trying to mask his utter surprise and remain unremarkable, Arthur nods, rests his hand casually on the desk. The man slips a folded notebook page into it and Arthur turns away, palming the sheet and pocketing it. “Thank you,” he says, walking to the door as casually as he can.

Back out on the street, he puts some distance between himself and the building before taking the paper (a sheet torn from a Moleskine) out and unfolding it. His hands shake slightly as he does. “Darling,” it says, in handwriting he recognises. Underneath is a hotel name and room number. Even without his name, he knows it's addressed to him. Eames uses pet names in a flirty English way, but Arthur has never heard him call anyone else “darling”.

He quickens his stride. He wants to run, but that would attract attention, so he forces himself not to. Eames knew (hoped, more likely) he’d come. He’d charmed the security guy, described Arthur and left him a clue. He’d known something bad was about to happen. Arthur wishes he hadn't tried to ignore his misgivings for even a day. _Three days._ How much can have happened in those three days. And he has no way of knowing what had happened before that to spook Eames badly enough to cause him to lay this trail of breadcrumbs. The hotel is one of the weirder buildings in this fantasia but he doesn't have time to ponder its architecture. The concierge is busy as he walks across to the elevators. The room number is 528 — a discreet sign, or a coincidence?

The corridor is empty and it doesn't take him long to get the door open. The room is neat, too neat, almost as if no one is staying here, but he glances in the bathroom and sees a toothbrush in the glass. That gives him an odd feeling, it’s almost too intimate. He opens the wardrobe. There’s an apparently empty duffle on the floor alongside a pair of sneakers, a jacket hanging above, folded shirts and underwear, socks, a tie on the shelves. But no suit. Wherever Eames is, he is fully dressed. He wasn't dragged out in the middle of the night. He left on his own. He just hasn't returned. 

Arthur steps over to the bed, opens the drawer in the nightstand. There’s a book inside, a battered paperback. He picks it up, turns it over. John Donne, _The Complete English Poems_. He’s always known there’s more depth to Eames than he willingly reveals, but this seems weighty reading to pass the hours in such a place. He flicks through its pages. There’s a slip of paper marking a place. Again, the word “darling”, and what looks like a phone number. He slips it back in the same place; it might be significant, because it’s obvious Eames has laid a very careful trail.

He doesn’t really want to think of Eames, beginning to see his cover cracking, fearing he might disappear, marking his way. _Why didn’t you just leave, Eames? Why stay, all alone, exposed, marking a path for me to follow?_ He can’t allow himself to get trapped in thoughts of Eames’ panic, his mounting certainty that it could all end very badly, and his stubborn determination to finish the job he’d set himself. What could make him so determined to stay? _Very bad things._

He makes a more thorough sweep of the room now, opening every drawer, feeling into the back corners for anything else Eames may have left, or dropped. He lifts the mattress on the bed, but there’s nothing hidden there. Finally, crumpled in the toe of one of the sneakers, is another bit of paper, also torn from a Moleskine. There’s no real clue. Only a sketch, done in ballpoint, of Arthur’s own face.

He freezes. Smooths out the creases. Feels a pricking in his eyes. “Eames. I’m coming, Eames.” The roughness of his voice startles him in the silent room. 

He places the picture on top of the phone number in the book and slips it into his jacket pocket. Carefully checks the room to make sure his visit won’t be noticed by anyone who might come here after him, wiping surfaces down with toilet paper that he flushes. The sight of Eames’ toothbrush makes his eyes prick again, but he blinks and squares his shoulders and slips out into the still-empty hallway. “Just hang on, Eames.”

He walks back to his own hotel through noontime streets full of too-bright sunshine and dusty wind and too few people to fill the wide pavements. He doesn’t think he’s being followed, but he can’t be certain. Maybe he has the advantage of surprise. Whoever Eames pissed off might not expect someone to care enough to follow him. They’ll have him pegged as an eccentric loner, a not-inaccurate estimation. Except for Arthur’s skill at keeping track of everyone in dreamshare.

Back in his own hotel room, he orders coffee and food and opens his laptop. The memorized phone number doesn’t have a code he recognises, but it turns out to be one issued by a local cell company. It’s not registered to anyone in their database — a burner. He routes a call from his laptop via a complex masking program. The phone goes to voicemail. Eames’ voice. But all he says is: “Eighty-three.”

“Fuck, thanks Eames, that’s helpful.”

He dials the number again, telling himself he’s listening for clues in the background. He’s really just listening to Eames’ voice. It’s almost impossible to tell anything from two words, but he can hear strain in them, he thinks.

He’s taking off his jacket when the weight of the thick paperback reminds him. He pulls it from his pocket. The cover is a painting of a guy who looks faintly, he thinks, like Jimi Hendrix. The thought makes him smile a bit and he opens it at the place marked by the slips of paper. On the left-hand page, the second half of the title of the poem is underlined: “A Valediction: forbidding Mourning”.

A valediction. He didn’t study literature beyond high school, but he knows what valediction means. “No,” he says, aloud, “you’re not saying goodbye, asshole. Forbidding mourning! There’ll be nothing _to_ mourn, Eames!”

The poem itself is pretty obscure, but his eye falls on the page number: 84. He flips the page back to 83. The poem there is entitled: “The Undertaking”.

“I have done one braver thing Than all the Worthies did,” it starts.

“Brave, huh?” But before he can read on and try to puzzle it out, he notices tiny writing at the very bottom of the page. He carries the book over to the window and squints at it in the better light. “Daraboz”.

“What does that even mean?” he asks the air. “A little specificity, Eames,” he adds, and can’t help the snort of laughter that follows the words, easing the tension he’s been carrying.

The map of the city he picked up in the lobby last night is lying on the desk and he studies it while gulping coffee. He sees it almost immediately, a smaller street, much closer to the river: “Daraboz”.

“Thanks,” he says, “that’s specific enough.”

He tries to eat as much of the food as he can while changing into dark jeans and a black hoodie. Who knows when he’ll be able to eat again. Having flown in, he doesn't have a firearm; a knife will have to do, and he straps the ankle holster on grimly.

“I'm coming, Eames,” he mutters as he opens the door. “Just hang on.”

He hails a cab; Daraboz is quite a distance, although he doesn't ask to be taken that far. When he gets out, he walks in the opposite direction, consulting the map he snapped on his phone, trying to seem relaxed enough not to draw attention. There are no storefronts with windows to use as mirrors to watch for anyone trailing him, but he doesn't think he’s being followed as he circles back to Daraboz. This part of the city is far less flashy, mostly midsize blocks and semi-industrial buildings. The street itself is quite narrow, quiet, lined with four-story apartment buildings. He has no idea where to start looking. He walks along trying to pick up any clues to something out of the ordinary, any hint that someone is being kept against his will in one of the buildings. There’re a few kids hanging about and a small group of women chatting. They glance at him without much interest. It’s beginning to seem hopeless; ingenious as Eames has been in leaving clues, what do they even mean? If he was taken somewhere, how could he have guessed where, ahead of time? He has no option but to keep following the thread though, however tenuous. The buildings are all the same, each with a number above the main door: 79, 81 … 83. There are hardly any cars parked in the street, but outside 83 is a black SUV. Rather out of place with the neighborhood. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” 

The vehicle’s windows are dark-tinted, but he thinks there’s someone in the driver’s seat. He keeps his head down and walks past, counting the buildings until he gets to a cross street, turns right and looks for a way to get at the rear of the blocks. There’s a narrow alleyway, full of trash cans, fire escapes overhead. He counts buildings, keeping his face down, in case anyone happens to be looking out of a window. 

The ground outside what he thinks is number 83 is littered with balled up bits of paper. He picks them up. Each one has just one thing scribbled on it: “4”. “Fuck, Eames, you’re good at this.”

He glances up. There’s a window on the top floor that’s open a crack. Is it worth risking simply climbing the fire escapes? Surely if it were possible to get out that way, Eames would have done it himself?

As he stands there, trying to imagine what to do next, a balled-up scrap of paper drops from above, bouncing at his feet. He looks straight up. He can't see anything, of course, but maybe Eames can. He’s alert enough to keep leaving his clues, but not able to make a break for it on his own. And he’s right there, at the window, right now.

Arthur is climbing the fire escape before even thinking about his next move. The ageing metal rattles and creaks under his weight and he’s glad. Perhaps Eames will realize he’s on his way. “Just hang on.” 

The metal is rusted almost through in places and flakes come off on his hands, his feet slip on the rungs. As he reaches the top floor, he slows, trying belatedly to achieve stealth. He flattens his back to the wall and inches towards the partially open window, craning to try and see inside. There’s no sound from within, and no movement. 

“Eames?” he whispers. “It’s me, Arthur.”

“Darling.” Eames’ voice is a mere breath, a sigh. “You came.”

“Yes.” Arthur tries to keep his voice low, and steady, but he’s fighting a sudden blinding rage at how weak and almost hopeless Eames sounds. “I’m taking you out. Are you alone?” 

He risks another look inside, and at first he doesn't see Eames. He’s slumped directly under the open window, handcuffed to a radiator pipe. The window is not barred. The room’s door is closed.

“No guard?”

“No need.” The handcuff clanks against the pipe.

“How often do they come in?” 

“Morning … evening.” 

Arthur glances at his watch. It’s 5pm. “Soon?” 

“Dark …”

The sun set at six yesterday, he thinks.

“I'm coming in now.” He slips his hand into the narrow gap in the window and tries to reach the crank. “Can you reach?” he whispers. Eames shifts awkwardly and just manages to get his hand on it, pushes it weakly, but it’s enough to give Arthur better access and he widens the gap enough to force his shoulders in. It's about as elegant as going headfirst through a window ever is and he only just manages to avoid falling on Eames.

He whips round and gets his first good look at him.

Eames is haggard, his hair lank on his forehead. He’s wearing suit pants and a once-white shirt. He's shoeless. “Hello, darling,” he says with a faint smile.

“Fuck, Eames! God.” Arthur can't help reaching out to touch his cheek. “Hello,” he says, still whispering.

But there’s no time to waste. He pulls out the slim cloth roll that contains his lock picks and gets to work on the handcuffs. He’s almost got the lock opened when a door opens elsewhere in the apartment and a loud voice calls what sounds like a greeting. 

“Food,” says Eames.

“Dammit!” Arthur gives the pick one last wiggle and the lock springs open. 

Eames shakes his wrist, hissing through his teeth. 

“Can you stand?” he asks, giving Eames his hand and pulling him to his feet. 

Eames winces and nods grimly. “Been down there three days.” His voice is a little firmer. “But I think I can walk.” 

On the other side of the door, two men are talking, loud and jocular.

Arthur keeps hold of Eames’ hand. “Okay, we’re going out the window, down the fire escape and turning left, got it?”

He gives Eames a little push and reaches down to get his knife from the sheath at his ankle. “They armed?” 

“Not the guy who brings the food,” says Eames, halfway out the window, “that I saw.”

Arthur follows him out onto the rusted platform, which bows under their combined weight before Eames starts down the first ladder, Arthur almost stepping on his hand as he follows.

The narrow, rusted rungs have got to be biting into Eames’ bare feet, but he doesn’t show it, climbing steadily down. When he reaches the drop at the bottom, he falls heavily and stays down. Above them there’s a shout of surprise. Arthur glances up and sees a heavyset man leaning out. He drops next to Eames, managing to stay on his feet. 

“They know,” he says, kneeling down. “Eames? We’ve got to run now. We’ve got to run that way.” He points to the end of the alley he came in by. “We’ll get a cab there.” It’s a slim chance, but it’s all they have. “Get up, Eames. Can you get up?

Above them the metal of the fire escape gives a terrifying screech and their pursuer shouts, high-pitched. Arthur glances up. The man is climbing back in the window. “Thank god, they’ve got to go round. Change of plan. They’ll come in this end. We’re going the other way. Come on, Eames, we’ve got to go.” Once again, he pulls Eames to his feet. This time, he sucks in a sharp breath and isn't putting weight on his left foot. 

“Twisted it.” Eames’ jaw is set. “Okay, run.” 

He turns left, but Arthur grabs his shirt. “Change of plan, remember? They’ll come from that end. Other way.” Eames sets off at a shamble, limping badly, but there’s nothing else to be done. Arthur grabs his hand and half drags him along. He estimates they’re a bit more than halfway to the end when there are shouts behind them. Eames is half falling with every step, but he doesn't stop, breathing heavily beside Arthur. 

There are trash cans every few yards, and Arthur knocks one over, then another and another as they run, blocking the narrow alley and flooding it with the smell of garbage. And finally, finally, they’re at the other end. They step out onto the busy cross street, where, thank god! at least some of the passing cars are bright green taxis. 

“Stand behind me,” he tells Eames, flinging up his arm to hail one. The car that stops is a bit dented. Arthur grabs Eames’ hand again and tows him forward, opening the door and shoving him inside. The driver looks round and starts to protest when he sees the state of Eames, but Arthur slams the door and gestures frantically for the man to “Drive! Drive!” He looks over his shoulder as the taxi pulls back into the traffic. Two burly men are panting at the mouth of the alley, looking baffled. 

Eames is slumped in his seat, eyes closed, panting hard. Arthur pushes his hand across the gap between them on the seat and touches his leg. The corner of his mouth lifts a tiny amount. 

Arthur tells the cabdriver to drop them at a different hotel than the one he’s staying at, and shoves a wad of dollars at him as they get out.

“Sorry, Eames, we’ve got to walk a bit more,” he says, after the cab has pulled away. “But it’s just down there. Not far.”

“Okay.” Eames’ voice is almost as faint as when Arthur first saw him a little less than an hour ago. They’re only a hundred yards from the hotel, but it takes Eames long minutes to cover the distance, all the adrenaline that got him this far apparently draining away.

The lobby is busy, a large group milling around waiting to check in, and Arthur practically drags Eames to an elevator. “Nearly there now,” he says. In the little enclosed space he becomes aware that Eames stinks, of the days of captivity, and running, and fear, probably. “Nearly there,” he says again, sounding to himself as if he’s soothing a child. Eames is trying not to put weight on his left foot, swaying in place. Arthur slips his arm round his waist and holds him up. “I’ve got you.”

When the lift stops, Eames leans heavily on him as they walk down the hall to the room. Inside, he tries to steer Eames towards the bed, but he balks at the bathroom door. “Okay, good idea,” Arthur says. Eames pulls the door shut behind him.

Arthur walks into the room, shaky with released tension, and sits on the bed. In the bathroom, the toilet flushes and the shower starts to run. Arthur stares at the carpet in front of his feet, his mind empty of everything except relief. Slowly, he realizes that the shower has shut off, but Eames doesn't come out of the bathroom. He gets up and goes to the door.

“Eames?” He taps on the door. “You okay?” No reply. Arthur tries the door, it’s not locked. “Eames?” He pushes it slightly open, but doesn't look in. “May I come in?” 

“If you want.” Eames’ voice is soft. Arthur steps inside. He’s sitting on the floor of the shower, knees drawn up. He’s shivering.

“What are you doing?” Arthur grabs a towel from the rack and holds it out to Eames. “Come on, get dry, you’re cold.” He gives Eames his other hand, for the third time today, and hauls him to his feet. Eames winces, favoring his left leg again. He reaches for the towel and starts to dry himself slowly. Arthur turns to the sink and studies himself in the mirror. His hair is wild and there’s a streak of dirt on his cheek. His hands are orange with rust. Behind him, Eames has wrapped the towel round his waist. He smiles faintly and leaves the room. Arthur washes his hands and face, pushes the door shut and pees. When he walks out, Eames is sitting slumped on the bed where he had, staring at the same patch of carpet. 

“Shall I order some food?”

“I'm starving,” says Eames. “Nothing since last night.”

“What would you like?”

“I dunno. Burger?” 

Arthur picks up the room phone and orders. Behind him, Eames has started to shiver again, wrapped in the damp towel. 

“Get into bed, Eames, you’re freezing.” 

“Okay.” He gets up and limps to the pillows, pulls back the heavy bedcover and climbs in. 

“I'm not sure any of my things would fit you,” says Arthur, digging in his bag. “Try this.” He tosses a T-shirt on the bed, along with the loose jersey boxers he slept in last night. Eames doesn't move, and Arthur realizes he's fallen asleep. His hair is damp from the shower, Arthur pushes it off his forehead. The drawn look has faded now he’s asleep. Arthur sits down in the armchair to wait for the food.

When it comes, he’s not sure if he should wake Eames. He seems heavily asleep, but he said he was hungry and Arthur doesn't want him to wake in a few hours, feeling even worse.

“Eames?” He touches his shoulder. “Eames, the food’s here.”

Eames opens his eyes and frowns at Arthur. “Whaat?”

“The food’s here.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Starving.” He sits up.

“You want to try a T-shirt?” Arthur hands it to him. Eames looks dubious. “It’s big on me,” says Arthur. It’s an old shirt he sleeps in, and may just stretch over Eames’ shoulders.

Eames sits up and pulls it on. It fits, just. “Thanks,” he says. There’s no animation in his voice. 

Arthur carries the burgers over to the bed. They’re not very good, but they’ll do. They eat in silence, and afterwards, Eames lies back down. 

“You want anything else? Tea?” 

“It’s not bad here,” says Eames. “Black, like in Russia.” He seems almost asleep again as Arthur calls down for a pot of tea for two.

Eames sighs as he drinks several glasses of tea. Then he says, “God, I’d love to clean my teeth.” 

“Use mine. It’s new. Ish.”

“Really?”

“If you don't mind.”

“I haven’t cleaned my teeth for days.”

“I figured.” 

Eames gets out of bed, grabbing Arthur’s boxers. The T-shirt doesn't cover his ass. When he comes out of the bathroom he wearing the boxers, which only just stretch across his hips. He gets quickly back into bed.

“I’m going to go shower,” says Arthur.

As he stands under the hot water, he wonders when, or if, Eames will be ready to talk about his ordeal. He won’t push him, although he’d like to know what Eames went through, and if he knows why. He also wonders where he should sleep.

When he gets out, he rubs his teeth with toothpaste on his finger and rinses his mouth. Trading one toothbrush back and forth is far too intimate.

Eames looks asleep, but as Arthur approaches, he lifts the edge of the blanket. “Get in the bed,” he says.

“Okay.” Arthur gets in and settles with his back to Eames, who turns over so they’re back to back. “Night,” he says, turning off the lamp.

“Thank you,” says Eames, in the darkness. “For coming. I knew you would.” 

“You’d do the same for me.” And Arthur knows with absolute certainty that’s true. Just as he knows Eames never doubted him. _When had that become true?_

The room is profoundly dark when Arthur wakes. Next to him, Eames is tossing restlessly and muttering. 

“No! No!”

He sits up and turns towards Eames, puts his hand on his shoulder; Eames flinches away, but doesn’t wake. “Leave me alone!” 

Arthur gets out of the bed. Eames turns to where he was, still asleep. “Arthur? You better hurry, Arthur.”

He walks round to Eames’ side and crouches down. “I'm here. I came. You’re safe.” He hesitates to touch him again. “You’re safe,” he repeats. 

“Arthur.” Eames’ face smooths and he appears to drop into deeper, calmer sleep.

Arthur goes to the bathroom, pees and drinks a glass of water. It’s 2am. Eames appears calm as he gets back into bed and settles.

It’s still dark when he is woken again, by Eames kicking him. “Fuck you! No you bloody don't! Don’t touch me!” 

He backs out of bed again, unsure how to wake Eames from this nightmare. “Eames? You’re safe.” He tries to make his voice soothing, as if he were calming a child. He feels ridiculous. This is Eames.

“Arthur will be here soon,” says Eames. “Arthur’s coming.”

“I _am_ here, Eames. I came and we got away. You’re safe now.”

“Arthur’s coming,” Eames says again.

“That’s right.” He sits in the armchair, not wanting to disturb Eames again, now that he seems to be properly asleep once more. He can't see his watch, but it's still dark, the sky just starting to lighten. They forgot to close the curtains. 

He’s drifting off when Eames says, vehemently: “Get away from me! Fuck!” and rubs at his bicep. “Bastards!” he says.

“Eames? Wake up, Eames!” Arthur crouches by the bed again and touches Eames’ shoulder. He flinches away with a gasp, scrambling to the other side of the bed. “Don’t touch me, you fucker!”

That stings, even though he’s sure Eames is talking to someone else. He wishes he could wake him up, but he seems almost drugged. Apparently he will just have to wait it out. He sits back, shivering slightly. Outside the window, the sky is white. It’s 5am. 

Eames is turned away from him. “Arthur?” he says, his voice rising on the question. “Arthur? You’ll come and find me.”

How had Eames been so sure he would come? He hadn't even known himself, until he lost track of Eames.

“You’ll find me. I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me what, Eames?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“Okay, Eames. I'll listen to whatever you need to tell me.”

“I'll tell you … how long.”

“How long?”

Eames is still facing away, but Arthur is pretty sure he’s not awake. His voice is slurred. “So long.”

“Yeah. So long.” Because he knows, finally, that he has something to tell Eames too. “So long. I know. Me too, Eames.”

Eames is quiet then. Arthur watches him sleep as the room gets lighter. Finally he turns over and opens his eyes. “Arthur?”

“Hello, Eames.”

His face smooths and he smiles. “Arthur. You’re here.”

“Yes I am. I came to get you.”

“I knew you would.”

“Did you? I didn't even know that. Until I did.”

“I always knew,” says Eames, firmly. His eyes fall shut again, but he says: “Why are you over there? Come back to bed, darling.”

So Arthur goes around to the other side and climbs in behind Eames, his arm across his chest. “Here I am,” he says. Eames sighs and settles against him and Arthur lies and wonders just how long he and Eames have felt like this for each other.

The sun is high in the sky when they wake up again. Arthur risks pressing his lips to Eames’ nape. Eames sighs, but he doesn't turn over. 

Eames still seems slow, dazed. They order breakfast and sit on the bed eating and drinking strong coffee, but not talking. Arthur wants to know everything Eames was wrestling with in the dark, but he won’t press him to say. 

Afterwards, he says: “I’m not sure it's safe to go back to your hotel room to get your things, what do you think?”

Eames frowns, but he seems more engaged now. “I don't think they knew where I was staying. They just didn't let me leave the flat after taking me there ‘for a party’. I’d been there before. I was already suspicious, that’s why I left the clues for you.”

“I wondered how you managed that. Subtle.” 

“I knew you’d get them.”

“Did you really?”

“I knew you’d know … eventually.”

“Thank god.”

They fall silent. Arthur thinks about Eames’ certainty in the face of his own apparent indifference. How had Eames known when he did not?

Finally, Eames speaks again. “I don't want my things. I just want to go home.”

“Shall I go buy you some clothes, and then we can leave?”

“Would you?”

“Of course, Eames.”

“Yes. Of course you would.”

Arthur gets dressed quickly, Eames lying on the bed watching him.

“I'm going to have another shower,” he says as Arthur picks up the keycard and his wallet.

“Good idea,” says Arthur, opening the room door.

When he returns with jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers, socks, underwear and a jacket, Eames is huddled under the covers again, his hair damp. He has the book of Donne poems open. 

“You found it,” he says, his fingers smoothing the drawing. “This one wasn't good enough. The one I gave the guard was better.”

“That’s how he knew me?” Eames nods.

Arthur puts the bags on the bed. 

“Thanks.” But Eames doesn't get up to look. “Did you see the poem? I love it. I thought you might understand. If I didn't …” His voice trails away.

“I did see it. But I was in too much of a hurry to try to understand it. You can read it to me.”

“Yes,” says Eames. He gets up then and pulls the clothes out of the bags. He pulls off Arthur’s T-shirt. Arthur’s relieved to see his body isn't battered. “They weren't violent. They had drugs,” says Eames, seeing him look. “I’ll tell you later.” He picks up the clothes and disappears into the bathroom. Re-emerging dressed in clothes that fit well enough, he says: “Can we go soon?”

Arthur has found tickets out to Moscow and they take a cab to the airport, past the gaudy fantasy architecture. 

As they wait at the boarding gate, Arthur thinks he can risk asking.

“What was the job, Eames? Why did you stay when you knew it was ending so badly?”

“It wasn’t … in our line of work. It was research. Their testing methods were … unethical doesn't cover it. At all. I had to stay as long as I could. I needed the last piece of evidence.”

“And did you get it?”

“I did.” His voice is grim. “I passed it to my contact. By then they’d finally decided I wasn’t who they thought. But taking me was utterly pointless. It was too late. They didn’t believe that, though.” He’s looking at Arthur as he tells him this, but he turns away now. “They would have killed me when they understood, I suppose,” he says, his voice tired once more. “You arrived just in time.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say. “Fuck, Eames!” He can’t take Eames’ hand here in public, but he pushes his own hand across the seat, until he’s touching him. 

Eames has turned back. His eyes are dark. “Yeah,” he says. 

He sleeps most of the flight, still held by the after-effects of whatever he was drugged with, but he’s quiet now. He has slipped the poetry book into the seat pocket. Arthur pulls it out and finds the place still marked by Eames’ drawing of him.

It’s dense and archaic, but the first verse reads:

“I have done one braver thing  
Than all the Worthies did;  
And yet a braver thence doth spring,   
Which is, to keep that hid.”

Does Eames love it because he sees his own hidden feelings in it? Perhaps. Arthur can't puzzle out the rest. 

In Moscow, Arthur says, wishing he felt more certain about what they have both admitted: “Mombasa via Nairobi?”

Eames frowns. “Mombasa isn't home.”

“Where then?” Arthur doesn't know if he can hope.

“Where are you going? Take me home?”

He _can_ hope.

“Of course, Eames. Home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to [John Donne's poem The Undertaking](http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/undertaking.htm)


End file.
